






'H 
























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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap. Copyright No... 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




OLD ST. MARY'S, ANDOVER, ENGLAND. 



' The good king's chu7'ch^tjie wise king^s school^ 
All (ell of Hampshire's past!" 



T^OEM 



Historic Andover 



ANNIE SAWYER DOWNS 



i646-l896 







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Copyright 
ANNIE SAWYER DOWNS 



Andover, Mass. 

THE ANDOVER PRESS 

1896 



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TO THE CITIZENS OF ANDOVER, 

THIS POEM, 

WRITTEN AT THEIR REQUEST; 

AND READ 

BY PROFESSOR JOHN WESLEY CHURCHILL, 

UPON 

THE 25OTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE SETTLEMENT OF THE TOWN; 

IS DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR, 

ANNIE SAWYER DOWNS. 



hiroJCie 



Old Church of St. Mary, Andover, England . . . Frontispiece 

Group (Full Page), " " 7 

Folly Bridge, " " 9 

Title, Norman Arch, and Town Seal, Andover, England . . 11 

St. Ann's Well, " " . . 12 

Druid Stones, near Andover, England 13 

"The North Sea Strand" . 14 

Meadows, Andover, England 16 

Pine Woods, Andover, Massachusetts 19 

"Our River" " " 20 

Witch Lane, North Andover, Massachusetts 21 

Porch of Anne Bradstreet's House, North Andover ... 22 

Anne Bradstreet's House (Full Page), North Andover ... 26 

Fire-Place in Anne Bradstreet's Parlor, " " ... 29 

Old Houses (Full Page), Andover, Massachusetts . . . . 31 

Phillips Parsonage (Full Page), Andover, " • • ■ • 35 

Battle of Bunker Hill (Trumbull), 40 

First Burying-Ground of North Andover, Massachusetts . . 42 

Coat-of-Arms, Phillips Family (Initial Letter) 43 

Elm Arch and Enchanted Bridge 45 

General Washington in Andover, Massachusetts, November 5, 1789 46 

Tablet in Memorial Hall, Addover, Massachusetts ... 49 

^Portrait of Walter Raymond (Full Page) 51 

Prison, now National Cemetery, Salisbury, North Carolina, where 
Walter Raymond Died Christmas Day, 1864, and was Buried in 

THE Trenches ss 

" The Trumpet that Sings of Fame " (Full Page) .... 57 




To-day, the Hampshire fields are sweet with blossoms of the May ; 

To-day, in ancient Hampshire woods, the deer and rabbit play ; 

While Hampshire meads are smooth and rich, and shine with emerald gleam, 

And haunted forests whisper low to each historic stream. 

But towns and cities old and gray are Hampshire's pride and boast, 

And that o'er all her grassy plains, the track of Roman host 

Still leads to villa, and to camp, and to the Druid grove, 

Whose mystic stones were altars hoar, ere Bacchus was, or Jove ; 

Who silent saw the rise of Rome, and silent saw her fall. 

And made no sign when axe of Dane crashed down the minster wall. 

Or smote with all his savage horde, on shrine and chapel rare, 

And drowned with ribald jest and oath the monkman's dying prayer. 



The Druid stone, the Roman camp, the Norman abbey vast, 

The good king's church, the wise king's school, all tell of Hampshire's past. 

And of the proud and noble fame which through the years comes down 

To flush the cheek, and thrill the hearts throughout our ancient town, 

For our own Andover so old, and yet so young to-day, 

Who ever to the mother land will loving homage pay, 

To an old borough on the Ande is namesake, mental heir. 

Which Saxon men called Andover in English Hampshire fair. 




O, mother land, O, mother town, how oft thy shaded street 

Has heard at dawn the bugle call, and then the trampling feet 

Of men at arms, who for their king shrank not from toil or pain, 

And for their right in church or state accounted death but gain, 

Who in the cell, and on the block, by faggot, and by rack. 

Laid straight a way through coming years for freedom's shining track. 

O, mother land, O, mother town, when dark days on you fell. 

And those you set in places high, for gold and gauds dared sell. 

The freeman's right to name his faith, the freeman's right to pray. 

To seek his God with hymn or psalm as seemed to him God's way, 

The freeman's right to judge the Word, to teach his simple child 

That secret true of holy life is Gospel undefiled ; 

And that to follow leaders blind is weak and wicked thing, 

For of the soul not prince, nor priest, but God alone is king. 

Then through thy quiet rural ways, O, lovely mother land, 

And in thine ancient city streets, and on the North sea strand 

Was heard a sound like wind at night among the leafy trees, 

Or ceaseless break on sandy shores of never silent seas ; 

And which in great waves rolled along to break at last in song. 




' We go, we go, 

across the wave, 
As Israel went of old, 
To seek a home and find a grave. 

In strange and distant fold. 
We go, we go, the world is wide, 

But love is ever near. 
Our fathers' God is at our side ; 
And true hearts know not fear. 



'«s>^^ 



Across the sea, across the sea. 

Are valleys fair and lone. 
And forests rich, and wild, and free. 

Which yet may be our own. 
And where, unvexed by bishop's rule, 

Or envious tyrant's hate. 
We with God's help, in wisdom's school, 

May rear a noble state. 



14 



• Where truth shall be the rule of life, 

And faith have steadfast sway, 
And not for gold or fame the strife. 

But clear to see God's way. 
Where loosed from old and craven fears. 

Men see who once were blind. 
That only thus through future years, 

May souls sure freedom find. 



' Farewell, farewell, we may not wait. 

Our ships are in the ba}'. 
And though to-night the tide is late. 

Before the dawn of day, 
We shall far off on shifting wave, 

Watch line of fading shore, 
The fairest shore God ever gave. 

But home for us no more. 
No more, no more, dear fading shore. 

Our home, O, never more." 



(f^ 




HEIR voyage was long on wintry seas, 
Tossed by the strange and baffling breeze, 
And summer sun was warm and higli, 
Before tlieir eyes saw coast line nigh. 

That coast line was our Salem bay. 
Glad then as now with light waves' play, 
Fair then as now with rose and fern ; 
But thickly set with forests stern, 

Which all untrod pressed dark and grim, 
Close to the white sand's curving rim ; 
As they would hide from vision rude, 
The haunts of virgin solitude. 



And from whose depths as twilight fell, 
Rose clear above the ocean's swell, 
The owl's wild call, the wolf's dread roar. 
And stealthy steps unheard before. 



Which made young children closer creep. 
And sobbing wake from restless sleep ; 
While women knelt, their faces white. 
Shrinking in fear from morning light. 




UT with the morn, the morn of June, 
Their hope sprang gay to wild bird's tune, 
And proudly rang their hymn of praise. 
Throughout the forest's leafy ways. 



Then glad they sought the sheltered vales. 
Whence still were seen the harbor sails : 
And where before the summer fled, 
The log house had its thatch o'er head. 

What matter then that winter cold 
Trod hard on autumn's garb of gold ? 
Or that the hearth stone, rough and low. 
Was hidden deep in drifted snow ? 




For safe within were child and wife. 
And soul not with itself at strife. 
While will, and choice, and doctrine high. 
Were free as earth and air and sky. 




They sought our woods, 

they loved our hills, 
They hunted by our bubbling 

rills, 
AndjOne spring morn new township 

found 
By yonder grass grown burying ground. 

And soon by brook and river side, 
Their rude homes scattered far and wide ; 
While fairer than their shelters small, 
Rose house of worship over all. 

Where freely hymn and psalm rose high. 
As God to humblest soul drew nigh ; 
Where right was might, and will was fate, 
P'or God was Lord of Church and State. 

Strong were their hands and stern their will. 
As with hard toil and patient skill. 
They wrested harvests from the plain 
And cleared the wood for waving grain. 



\li"> 



The secrets of those early years. 
The griefs, the pains, the hopes, the fears, 
Are gone with children's faces sweet 
Or fleeing red men's hurrying feet. 



We faintly trace their farm lands' bound, 
Their cellars' green and sunken round ; 
Their meeting house upon the hill, 
The stones of their first water mill. 

Seek records of their parish wide 
Who first was groom, and who the bride ; 
Whose child first sat on Parson's knee, 
Who first paid hated tithing fee. 

Yet seek in vain ; but one dim page 
Is wafted to us from their age ; 
But one faint name on tombstone gray 
Reveals their brief and bitter day. 

We only know that firm and deep, 
They tilled where we the harvest reap, 
We only know the seal they set 
Stamps all our best and noblest yet. 






But still our loving fancy turns, 
To many an ancient road, 

Where aged houses lowly bend. 
Beneath the centuries' load. 

One with long line of sloping roof, 
Where shadows come and go ; 

And close about whose door stone 
The early wild flowers blow. 



;ray, 



Is shrine for poet, and for saint. 

Where pilgrims never cease ; 
For grave Anne Bradstreet loved this haunt, 

"This haunt of ancient peace." 




First poet of our Essex vale, 

First woman in the land 
To sing how sweet our meadows wide, 

How fair our river strand. 

And that the red man fierce and wild. 

Was yet a child of God, 
Who through uncounted years had been 
■^ Sole master of the sod. 

O, grave Anne Bradstreet, saintly soul. 

Your fame was early won, 
Yet you loved best the mother's name, 

The wifely work well done : 

And long years after you had found 
Rest in your unknown grave, 

A half forgotten deed of love, 
Remembered, was, to save 



Your child first born, your son, best loved, 
From worse than deadly doom, 

Which smiting men and maids alike. 
Wrapt all the town in gloom. 




X^'S HE infant town where winter snow, laid chill 
"^^5{£a '^fe- Upon the plain, 

Bi'f^^gey'rS^; '^^ ^^'^ where the noisy, rude 
March winds, 
'■?*«ltS^^J!«>Ift^iS^^ . W Swept from the far off barren hill 
j^r T&' To ravage field and wood. 



The wretched town which roused from sleep. 

That morning of long ago. 
By oaths, and yells, and crackling fire, 

And hurrying through the snow ; 
Of wives and children shrieking wild. 

Shivering and ghastly white. 
In after years would never tell. 

The horrors of that fight : 



But told instead, how oft in age. 

They saw the blood red sky ; 
And in their dreams heard wounded groan. 

And tortured women cry 
For help, to bear the cruel pain. 

Or swift release of death, 
While louder grew the dreadful din 

Above their laboring breath. 



The Indian horde swept through the town, 

The house of God defiled, 
And killed before the mother's eyes 

Her new born helpless child. 
They burned the harvest in the barn. 

The cattle in the stall, 
And dreadful as the curse of hell 

Was their mad fiendish call. 

And Parson Barnard, hid behind 

His book shelves old and tall, 
Heard painted leader orders give 

Where next their blows should fall. 
Then quick they burned the parish book, 

And by their torches' shine 
He saw how like the beasts they fought 

For the communion wine. 





HE Parson, without doubt, was saint. 

But hotly rose his ire 
As off they rushed to set at once 

The Bradstreet house on fire. 
He moved, he rose, but sank again, 

Scared by a dreadful shout, 
" The half fed wolves have found," he said, 

" Some long sought plunder out.'' 

He careful crept on hands and knees 

And looked through crack in door. 
As Dudley Bradstreet with his wife 

And children weeping sore 
Was hurried long the Haverhill road 

By all the yelling band. 
With kicks and blows and curses loud 

And bloody knives in hand. 

No backward look they dared to cast ; 

Their half clad stumbling feet 
Could hardly keep o'er frozen snow 

Pace set for swift retreat. 
As Parson watched them grieving loud. 

The bitter north wind died. 
And slowly faded fire and smoke 

From off the country side. 

For that the Parson thanked the Lord, 

And as he thanked he heard 
What in the midst of that wild scene 

His inmost spirit stirred, 
A shout, it almost seemed of glee. 

From just this side of wood ; 
Where in a circle and unbound 

The waiting captives stood. 



27 




TOPPED short by daubed and painted chief 

Not seen by them before, 
Who cut the cords which held tliem tight 

And at the leader swore. 
Then turned to Bradstreet, Colonel called, 

" You do not know my face. 
Do not remember years ago 

When hunted in disgrace ; 

" An Indian boy crept to your home, 

And by your mother seen. 
Was warmed and fed, and all day hid 

Behind the fireplace screen. 
Was sheltered through the winter long, 

And when pursuit was o'er 
Was safely sent with escort strong 

To Saco's distant shore. 

" No harm shall touch your mother's child, 

No man of Indian race 
Shall lift a hand against the home 

She made my hiding place. 
Now homeward turn and tell her kin 

One red man was not base 
But loosed your bonds and spared your life 

For her sweet act of grace." 



Next Sabbath, when the Parson prayed, 

He thanked the Lord for those 
Who while on earth fed, warmed, and clothed 

And even loved their foes. 
And then he told this gentle tale, 

Which like a flower comes down 
To light the darkness of the gloom 

Which wrapped the infant town. 




29 



The Parson might have told as well, how few 

Short years ago ; the Bradstreet house for two 

Long months, was dark, and closed to all, how cries 

Rose loud against the name, and how the sighs 

Of men in pain, and women tortured sore 

Were laid straightway at Dudley Bradstreet's door. 

How with his wife he fled by night, and close 

Was hid, until, again men's reason rose ; 

Till prisoners were from jail released, 

And o'er the land the witchcraft frenzy ceased. 

Hardly is there a record left to guide 

Us in our quest ; but still on one brook side 

We trace the lane by which the sheriff went 

When he in haste for wretched witch was sent. 

And proud to-day should be our town to call 

That witch's name ; for only she, of all 

Who pined and starved in Salem jail denied. 

With lifted head, and fierce and stubborn pride, 

That she herself a witch wife was, or could 

Another make, or that so long as God was good, 

Witch there could ever be. They hanged her then 

And hid her bones in wild wolf's den. 

But we upon our records high, write Martha Carrier's name, 

And give the story of her fate a wdde and deathless fame. 



30 





Hh,^how alike Ji ^M-KC 
<^enV H'^w fhe fii-,4 iiijtinels ibat 
r"^kc T)e ) fiqbt pr fi-eedom.anci 
1 qovei'nmeiit, wa irarh, l-2,s"b 
om age +o age! Old and uet 
e ■=, qoung, likeme eWna! iRiej 
t-^e "^ef i-eneVinq iKees. foe gray 
and cni.olilie se-jx!" 




HE end of first half century found the town 
Both rich and strong. Tho' fathers had lain down 
The burden and the care, and slept in peace, 
The mills and shops of sons showed great increase. 
The humble school at " parting of the ways " 
Had its own building new. In darkest days 
They glad to Harvard gave; and freely sent 
Their men and arms, and slender substance lent, 
When rumors that the east by war was stirred ; 
Or when the exiles' tales of woe were heard. 

The old first parish wide was rift in twain 

And South the new was called. Then bare and plain 

Rose second meeting house, and Phillips wise, 

First of the long and noble line, was named 

Their pastor and their guide. Unblamed 

He walked among them sixty years, and o'er 

Their lives shed counsel clear, and ever more 

Urged noblest deed and spirit high ; so when 

Were wanted sore, brave prompt and fearless men, 

The old town lacked them not. Stern too was he, 

Nor ever lightly looked at sin to see 

If there excuse might be. To know the truth. 

To do hard things, he taught the eager youth, 

So when the dark days came no single man 

Of Parson Phillips' flock, but quick began 

His life to plan so that when called on high 

He need not fear to meet his Parson's eye. 



33 




Yet life was life in those old days, and like our own 
Was sad, or joyed in love's light o'er it thrown ; 
While peace and shelter sweet of home, were thought 
The dearest things, if not by honor bought. 
Clear was it always understood the state 
Was first, and though men might their ease abate, 
The soldiers in the field must be supplied. 
Needs of their wives and children satisfied. 
And while as freemen sure, the action bold 
Of those they chose to rule, might be controlled 
By censure sharp ; they firmly held the ground 
In their defense when others on them frowned. 
They dreaded Papists like the death, yet found 
Houses and farms, and chance to till the ground. 
For guiltless ones who from Arcadian shores 
By stress of war were driven to their doors. 
And still on lovely western slope, a field 
Is shown, that once of flax a wondrous yield 
Produced under their skilful hands. When they. 
Back to their homes were sent, sad was the day 
And mournful their farewell. They left to show 
Their love a carven powder horn, and bow. 
And snatches gay of song and dance 
And stories strange of distant sunny France. 




THEN men still richer grew, while women fair 
^ Began, as women should, to have their share 
' Of ease ; no longer was there fear of raid 
By Indians wild ; no longer was the maid 
Forced to hard toil in field, but at the side 
Of cheerful fire, spun, wove, and told with glee 
Light laughing tales of maiden's trickery. 
Still heritage of freedom was not won. 
A question grave, pressed hard, they could not shun 
The mother land was dear, should they permit 
Her rule when wrong ? Should they to tax submit. 
Which wisest men of her own realm had said 
Would not be paid where freedom was not dead ? 
No, by high heaven ! The sea might o'er them roll, 
The land they loved grow' up again to wood. 
Ere single penny of their gold should 
Be unjustly wrung. All would they do and 
More, if as was right by law of mother land 
Son of their soil had seat, and voice in band 
Which statutes made. Until that right was theirs, 
Yield they would not to orders nor to prayers. 
The mother's blood was like the child's, so talk 
Ran high ; and over seas an army came 
To cities hold, and sear the land with flame. 



37 



Quick sprang our town to arms, and on the first 

Great day, the April day, when war cloud burst 

At Lexington, and crimsoned Concord's plain 

With blood, left loom, and plough, and tender grain 

To reach the front. They did their share that day ; 

And proved once more no price too high to pay 

For freemen's rights. No need to tell how drum 

And fife broke stillness of the vale, how hum 

Of angry words, by night and day, grew loud ; 

And everywhere from farm and shop, the crowd 

Flocked to the aged church in hopes to hear 

Where next a blow would fall ; perhaps how near. 

Then marshalled quick the minute men who gazed 

Toward Boston Bay, where hated war ships lay. 

And each night e'er the sun went down, cried loud, 

" To-morrow morn the word may come : ' Quick, crowd 

You to the fight ; ' and so God speed the night." 

Then at their arms they waiting stood, through spring days long and 

bright. 
To hear at last 'neath summer skies, the summons to the fight. 



38 



The grass was green upon the lawn, 

The corn waved dark and tall, 
And all day long the oriole. 

Whistled his silvery call. 
But what the veil, the film, the cloud 

That freights the air of June ? 
And what the hush, the dread, the fear, 

To which hearts beat in tune ? 

And why do men set faces hard 

And eyes of women fill ? 
While trembling age and eager youth. 

Press to the distant hill ? 
No courier swift swept through the street 

With beat of martial drum. 
And none could tell how the dread news 

To Andover town had come. 



Only that e'er the cannon's roar. 

Turned every heart's blood chill, 
The voice was heard, " Stand fast ! They fight 

To-day at Bunker Hill." 
Dark rolled the smoke, when on the breeze 

Was borne a deaf'ning shout 
"We 've beat the red coats off the field. 

We hold the frail redoubt ! " 



39 




Then there was mounting in hot liaste 

And hurrying to and fro, 
For Doctor, Nurse, and Parson French 

Swift to the field must go. 
More weary hours wore slow away, 

Again the mighty sound, 
" A second time the red coats flee. 

Once more they leave the ground." 



O maids and wives, and mothers dear. 

Whose sad eyes watched the fire, 
God grant though on that summer day 

You lost your hearts' desire. 
That steadfast pride and courage high 

Were yours through earthly ill, 
For a great state was born that day. 

That day at Bunker Hill ! 




OUD and still louder roared the guns, 

Thick smoke hid all the sky, 
And still the silvery oriole 

Sang in the chestnut high. 
At last the word, " Our powder gone. 

We've turned us down the hill, 
Content to prove this summer day, 

This day at Bunker Hill ! 



That farmer lads can shake a crown 

And lay proud England low. 
And on a field they have not tilled 

Such fearful harvest sow!" 
Shot fell like rain on Charlestown Neck, 

And brave the deeds oft told, 
Of Bailey, Farnum, Frye, and Poor, 

And stout John Barker bold. 

For he was private in the ranks, 

But last in the retreat ; 
When Captain Farnum struck by shell. 

Fell just across his feet, 
He lifted and he held him high 

Full in the redcoats' view 
And shouted loud, " Now hold on Ben, 

The Reg'lars sha' n't have you ! " 



41 



A hundred years have come and gone, 

And still in stirring verse, 
The children of North Andover 

John Barker's deed rehearse. 
And in the old-fashioned burying ground. 

Shady and green and still, 
On a mossy stone you oft may read, 

" He fought at Bunker Hill." 

He fought the fight, he kept the step, 

Loyal, and brave, and true, 
For a free land he paid the price 

Comrades, that day for you. 
So lowly kneel, and softly tread, 

In the graveyard under the hill 
Fame writes aloft no prouder line. 

Than, " Fought at Bunker Hill.'' 




42 




UT not on battle fields alone 
Our fathers' noble deeds have shone, 
For when grim war was at their door 
They calmly turned to lettered lore 

And planted deep on hill top green, 
Wide o'er the country to be seen ; 
Not fortress stern from whence to rule. 
But firm, enduring Christian school. 

First in the land where learning old. 
Disclosed to all its wealth of gold, 
Where side by side, the rich and great 
Sat low with men of mean estate. 



And nobler still, the first in land, 
To write on high that God's command 
Was far above all classic lore. 
Or poets from Castalian shore. 

O noble soul of Phillips name, 
To-day the whole world owns thy fame. 
While Phillips School is loved and blest: 
Where'er men roam in east or west. 



43 



School, which for hundred years and more, 
Has opened wide and generous door 
To truth, when she was known by few. 
To learning old, and science new. 

Whose walls have rung with echo loud. 
Great names of which the world is proud. 
Dear names, which whether far or near, 
Bring songs of love, and hope, and cheer. 



So twine once more the ivy green. 
And once more wreathe the bay leaves sheen ; 
That town must never blush for shame, 
Which guardian is of Phillips fame. 





ND as the years have come and gone, 
Round Phillips_ School, so early born, 
1 Religion grave has made her seat. 
And school for maidens, fair and sweet. 

Has risen at the foot of hill ; 

Fruit of the loving, generous will, 

Of one who to the Phillips kin 

In her low grave long years has been. 

O, trio, blest, and good, and wise ! 

Pride in your fair fame never dies. 

For of your life the noblest' part 

Springs deep from out the old town's heart. 




45 




And not alone these buildings high, 

Ring with great names and reach the sky ; 

We see grand faces in the street, 

By stream and grove their clear eyes meet. 

Here rode the Father of his land, 
And gracious waved his courtly hand ; 
Here to the plaudits of the crowd, 
The gallant Frenchman lowly bowed. 



And parsons with their gowns and bands. 
And hour glass quaint to tell the sands. 
And women of heroic make. 
Who risked their all for love's sweet sake. 



But why their titles now rehearse ? 
Why praise their deeds in trembling verse ? 
The seed they sowed has flowered in worth. 
And '' added beauty to the earth." 




46 




HEN once again, as long ago, 
U^;-*l When life with love was all aglow, 
When men dwelt quiet at their ease, 
And wealth was borne on every breeze. 

Was heard a warning voice, " Not yet is freedom won ; 
And ne'er will be, while in this land, a single son 
Of mine is called a slave, is bought and sold, and made 
To work in iields and woods, and in rice swamps, unpaid ; 
Black he may be, or white, unknown, unlearned, or poor. 
But while in bondage one is held, your freedom is not sure. 
You have grown rich upon his toil ; you softly live, 
While he is starved and cold. You must arise and give 
Such freedom as is yours ; must break his heavy chains 
Though at the cost of death, and prisoners' lonely pains. 




HEN raise once more, O sons of mine, 

My flag of heavenly blue ; 
Draw once again my shining blade, 

And hold it high in view. 
Then close your ranks, and waiting stand 
Till loud I call throughout the land." 

They waited through the April days, 

When tidings swiftly flew 
That erring brothers in their rage 

Had fired on flag of blue. 
Had lifted sacrilegious hands 
And laid it low on Charleston sands. 

Then freedom from her starry heights. 

Called loud the roll of fame. 
And swift as arrow from the bow. 

Came answer to the same. 
Turn, comrades, turn, the old leaves o'er. 
And read the lofty names once more. 



But read them low on bended knee, 

And humble tribute pay. 
They were the noblest in our town. 

Who heard the call that day. 
And who once more to deadly strife 
Bore high the names which shaped our life. 



48 



No deed of theirs has ever shamed, 
Our proud and ancient town ; 

Their courage and their zeal, we count 
The jewels in her crown. 

And write their names on record high. 

And ne'er will let their memory die. 

That roll of fame I careful scan, 

For name above the rest, 
For some more shining word or deed, 

To be by pen confest. 
But vainly scan, for every deed. 
Asks of our praise the highest meed. 




49 




ET stay, there is a simple boy, 

Younger than those I see ; 
Who often from our library wall. 

Turns serious eyes to me, 
Not braver he than comrades true, 

And not so strong or wise. 
And who my words would hear to-day 

With scarcely pleased surprise. 

Who would, perhaps, have said aloud, 

" Our Captain was our pride. 
And my messmate the bravest man 

Who for the old flag died. 
While as for me, I loved my town. 

And heard my country call. 
But in the camp and on the field. 

Was boy amongst them all." 

But just because he was a boy. 

Like those before me now, 
The brighter shines his hurried life, 

The aureole on his brow. 
"You are too young," the elders cried. 

Yet, when fresh summons came, 
Again upon the crowded list. 

Was Walter Raymond's name. 



Lone was the home he left behind, 

But quick from field and tent, 
Came boyish letters, brief and plain. 

Begging that food be sent ; 
And like a boy bewailing oft, 

How slow and small his pay, 
And how for papers and for books 

He looked in vain each day. 

" And how were all within the house ? 

How bloomed his mother's flowers ? " 
Ah, friends ! you think them trifles smill, 

But then the boy was ours. 
More serious soon the letters grew. 

And simple as a child, 
He told how when 'twas time to fight, 

He knelt in thicket wild. 

And asked his God to help him stand 

Firm in his ordered place ; 
And that he might not be afraid 

To meet his foeman's face. 
Low over to himself he said 

The collect for the day. 
And knew the Lord was by his side, 

Through all the fearful fray. 




The summer brief was almost gone, 

When in one twilight sweet, 
A passing friend laid lightly down. 

Across his mother's feet, 
A letter, faded, crumpled, old, 

^^'hich told how days before. 
Her boy upon a rapid raid 

Along the river shore. 

Had captured been by rebel horde. 

And driven swift away ; 
But to what city, or what town, 

No man of them could say. 
No more than this, except that he 

Called loud to those behind ; 
To turn them sharp, and save the trap, 

To which he had been blind. 



5.4 



It was a brave and generous thing 

To do that fatal day, 
"But then you know," they only said, 

"That it was Walter's way." 
Then darkness like the blackest night. 

And silence like the tomb, 
Hid from their straining, aching hearts. 

The knowledge of his doom. 

And that the tale was common then. 

More bitter made the grief, 
More keen the anguish of the home. 

Where hope gave no relief. 

'Twas autumn first, and winter then. 

But when the tardy spring, 
Was sweet with leaves, and buds, and flowers. 

And songs the wild birds sing ; 
They heard, how in a prison pen, 

111, cold, and starved beside ; 
While bells rang loud for Christmas Day 

That brave young boy had died. 




55 



And heard as well, how urged to sell 

His honor, and be free, 
He answered with uplifted head, 

"The dead cart first for me." 
How begged to steal from scanty store, 

Of feebler men than he, 
The answer still had been the same, 

"That will not do for me. 

They do not teach, you see, their boys 

That way in my old town ; 
Just tell my father how I died;" 

And smiling laid him down. 
Our Christmas bells o'er fields of snow. 

He needed not to hear, 
For loud rang out the bells of Heaven 

As that pure soul drew near. 

And boys, with clear eyes like his own, 

Who bear his name to-day. 
Who proudly march beneath the flag. 

Which o'er his soul had sway, 
Remember through all coming years ; 

Whatever storms betide. 
How grandly for that starry flag. 

Young Walter Raymond died. 



S6 







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